Rantings of your average 20 something American girl.

Category: I’m weird

With a heavy heart and sad eyes, I must change the tag line of my blog from 24 to 25.

I turned 25 today.

I’m 25 years old.

I’m halfway to 50.

Someone told me a quarter of my life is over… But that’s only if I live to 100! And I’m in terrible shape, I’ll be lucky if I live to 75, there is no way I’ll make it to 100. So technically then, even more than a quarter of my life is over.

So bring on the quarter life crisis, because I might not make it to my midlife crisis.

Kitchens are supposed to be where lovely things happen – where food happens. I love food, but I do not love my kitchen. I am fairly inept at cooking, I’ve got the baking thing pretty much down pat, and I’m terrible at doing the dishes.

Said dishes.

To most people I have a cute, small, slightly Dr. Who themed kitchen. To most people it looks like the counter could be replaced, and there is a tad bit of renovation that could happen, but the appliances are very nice.

Here’s my slightly Dr. Who theme going on.

A painting my friend Beau created. I thought it matched nicely with all the little blue things I have.

But that is not the case my friends. That is not the case at all. For this week, my kitchen, became… MY WORST NIGHTMARE.

THIS IS WHERE ALL THE BAD THINGS HAPPENED.

Monday and Tuesday were normal days concerning all of my kitchen interactions. Tuesday night, I got some frozen chicken out of my freezer to thaw out in my fridge.

Wednesday morning I grabbed my crock pot from the cupboard, I was going to cook the chicken in it, with alfredo sauce, all day when I was at work so I could have chicken alfredo for dinner. I noticed that the crock pot smelled a little funny. The outside looked fine, but I thought “Better wash it out again just in case.” That is when terror struck. You see, as with most crock pots, the area where you cook your food is ceramic and covered in a glaze and can be pulled out of the basin so you can wash it. Most of these crock pots, mine included, have an unfinished ceramic bottom – a part of the pot that isn’t covered with glaze – a “soft ceramic bottom.” Apparently the last time I put my crock pot away (about 2 weeks ago) I hadn’t dried the bottom properly. So when I pulled the crock out to wash it, much to my surprise – THE ENTIRE BOTTOM WAS COVERED IN BLACK MOLD. I REPEAT. COVERED. IN. BLACK. MOLD.

BLACK FREAKIN MOLD.

MOLD. (This mold had grown for so long that it had tiny stems and puffy spores like terrifying mold flowers.)

I AM TERRIBLY ALLERGIC TO MOLD.

So being my naturally calm and collected self I FREAKED THE CRAP OUT. I yelled, I hobbled and jumped around whilst holding this heavy ceramic crock… And then it dropped a little and I spread a ton of BLACK MOLD onto my shirt.

ONTO MY OWN SHIRT THAT WAS ON MY BODY.

Lord help me, I was a mess. I immediately took my shirt and my pajama shorts off, threw them into steaming hot water in the tub and scrubbed them with soap. I then ran back to the kitchen (in just my bra and underwear) and start to clorox EVERYTHING. I cloroxed the crock, the basin, the lid, the counter, my arms, my stomach, my hands, the crock again, the basin again, the lid again, the counter again, my arms again, my stomach again, and my hands again (at this point I was just proud of the fact that I didn’t have a panic attack and just burnt the house down).

But then looking at the clock I see that it’s 8:47am and I need to be to work by 9am. So I rushed around getting ready… And then all day at work all I could think about was the fact that there had been MOLD IN MY KITCHEN AND THERE COULD STILL BE MORE AND IT’S GOING TO KILL ME. To say I was tense at work is an understatement. When i got home I cloroxed everything AGAIN. And then washed everything with soap and hot water and put the bag with all the moldy cloroxed wipes and rags and paper towels in another bag and threw that on my porch to wait till garbage day. Then I ate cereal for dinner and searched my whole apartment the rest of the night for more mold.

Thursday morning I washed the crock again and then decided it would be safe to make my chicken alfredo. I opened my fridge to discover that the chicken that had been still mostly frozen on Wednesday, was now all the way thawed and that the bag the chicken was in… HAD A HOLE IN IT. There was RAW CHICKEN JUICE all over the bottom shelf of my fridge, and it had leaked into both the crisper and fresh fruit drawers, and underneath those drawers, and in the crevices behind those drawers.

I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I just put the chicken in the crockpot with the sauce, pretended I didn’t see the RAW CHICKEN JUICE all over my fridge, and I got ready for work since I was already short on time. And then I thought about raw chicken juice all day long at work. When I got home I opened the fridge, sat on the floor, and cleaned and cloroxed it for about 20 minutes. I still wonder if I got all of it. I then ate chicken alfredo for dinner.

Friday was uneventful in the kitchen, it was also trash day, so the mold and raw chicken juice clean ups were disposed of.

Saturday (today) I woke up after a fairly good sleep and when to the kitchen to start making breakfast. I was going to make my usual non-work day breakfast: 2 eggs – slightly runny, and 2 pieces of toast. I got all of my ingredients ready, heated the pan up, cracked my first egg… And almost threw up. The egg did not look like an egg. The egg WHITE was BROWN, the egg YOLK was GREEN, and the stench that started coming from the FRYING ROTTEN EGG IN MY PAN permeated my entire kitchen. I immediately freaked out. I grabbed the pan from the burner (left the gas burner on because I’m a genius) and ran around the kitchen yelling “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO EWWWWWWW!” I finally decided that it couldn’t just go into the garbage, so I threw it in a small plastic shopping bag… But the pan was still hot… So when the pan touched the plastic bag it melted. And then my apartment smelled like rotten egg and burnt plastic. I now had a slightly melted bag with a half fried rotten egg in it, so what did I do? I put it in the freezer because I live alone and no one ever told me what to do in this situation!

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow… It better not be anything bad with my Keurig… That thing is my angel.

This is the best thing invented of all time and I love it more than any other appliance ever.

As many of you know, I have been sick. I went to see my doctor on Thursday morning and I found out that it wasn’t allergies, or a cold, or even a sinus infection. I have bronchitis.

When I get sick. I get whiny. When I get really sick… I get so whiny that people want to punch me in the face (just ask my best friend, I’m really surprised she hasn’t killed me yet).

Now I had Friday-Sunday off. I should have been able to relax, heal, sleep, feel better, overdose on NyQuil. But no. I had plans.

I went to Amish Country. Lancaster, PA to be exact. With my mother. There was no relaxing. None. Nada. Zilch.

This would be a good time to point out that I am actually scared of Amish people. I don’t know why. I just am.

Now every year my parents go to Lancaster for their anniversary. Unfortunately, my Dad’s sub at work quit so he has to work 6 days a week and can’t take any days off. Therefore he could not go on this trip. So I got to go on my parents’ anniversary trip with my mother. It’s times like this where I swear my life could be a terrible sitcom. Just terrible.

Mom’s not so good on the driving – so I drove. Mom loves antiquing – we did a lot of antique shopping. Mom loves soft pretzels – well so do I so there wasn’t a problem there. Mom loves primitive crafts – we stopped at 5 stores (on top of the 6 antique places we went to… in just one day). Mom has bad arthritis – I had to carry every single multiple purchase. Mom loves Celine Dion – we listened to a lot of Celine Dion. Mom loves Amish people – we had to wake up at 7am on a Friday to go on an Amish bus tour with elderly people and this random family from Brooklyn with small child that sucked on his seat and licked the window.

Lets not forget though, that I have bronchitis. Lots of coughing, lots of nose blowing, lots of meds, lots of headaches… etc…

My mother and I don’t always get along. Because we are REALLY similar (which is surprising, since I’ve tried my whole life not to be like my parents). We can fight. And pick on each other. My mother also forgets that I have very modern tastes. So antiquing… Looking at old stuff that people have for sale, that’s dirty, and you don’t know who owned it… Kind of grosses me out.

And why do you have to be quiet in antique shops? When did that become a rule? Just because it’s mostly old ladies and quiet women does not mean that I HAVE TO BE QUIET! I am loud. So I cough loud. And I clear my throat loud. And if I’m made to be antique shopping by my mother, GOSH DARN IT, I will be loud! So don’t look at me funny, or sigh, or glare, or stare, or what not. You old ladies can stuff it! I will be loud in antique shops! Or you can just throw me out!

And why do Amish people ask for tips so much? Yes I know, everything you bake/cook is delicious, and due to your weird belief system you have weird/odd jobs. But if I buy your dang soft pretzel, don’t stare at your tip jar. I’m not gonna put anything in it. If I bought a soft pretzel from a vendor at a baseball game I wouldn’t tip him. You and your soft pretzel making talents are not special to me. I will eat almost any soft pretzel. How dare you try to make me feel guilty about NOT tipping you.

Why do antique shops always have a plethora of horrifyingly creepy dolls that are ALWAYS missing some sort of body part or all of their clothing? Who is going to buy that? What kind of sick freak goes to each antique shop looking for that type of doll? They should be arrested.

Why do all Amish children wave at you when you drive past? I felt like I was in a freakin parade. Stop it. I don’t like strangers and you and your black monotone colored clothes made me sad and uncomfortable and you make me think a lot about how I would live without an iPhone. I don’t like those thoughts. I love my iPhone.

Why do Amish children never wear shoes? Do they have shoes? Don’t their feet get dirty? What if you stepped on a bee!!!!???

Let’s be honest. That’s kind of what you do… Slit open the skin and flesh, rake out the innards, and then decorate. It’s very primal.

Anyways. I carved my pumpkin yesterday. Usually my family carves them together with some friends, which they did, without me, because I was sick. So they left my pumpkin here with me and I carved it by myself. So much fun…

Prepped and ready to be gutted.

I find it easier to cut a hole in the bottom of the pumpkin. That way you can just set it on a candle instead of having to stick your arm in the pumpkin to light it.

Innards. We keep the seeds to soak, marinate, and bake.

I’m pretty morbid during the Halloween season.

I’ll be honest. I love the design of this pumpkin. And it turned out pretty good for not having a pattern to follow. I really wish I could tell you how awesome and creative I am and how I came up with this idea all by myself. But I didn’t. I stole it from Steve Martin. I kid you not. He tweeted a picture of his pumpkin carving and I loved it. So I copied him. I’m shameless, I know.

My Mom carved 2 pumpkins this year because my Dad couldn’t be bothered to participate in the festivities.

My Mom’s 1st pumpkin.

My Mom’s 2nd pumpkin.

I think she got the design for the first one from a magazine. And the second one from a book… Maybe? I think it’s a cat…

Anyways, here they are lit up:

Boo…

(Interesting fact of the day: I planned and wrote this whole post whilst listing to “Story of My Life” by 1D on repeat. I really like their new song. Almost made me want to do a 1D pumpkin….)

Currently I cannot smell or taste anything. And this makes me miserable because I love food… A lot.

So here comes the sad/pathetic/selfish/crazy part:

I had amazing leftover Chinese food in the fridge from Thursday night. And I knew that if I left it in the fridge for one more night that someone else (my dad) was going to eat it. So even though I can’t taste or smell anything… I ate it. I didn’t even enjoy it. But just the thought of someone else (my own father) enjoying it didn’t seem fair to me. So I ate it. And I didn’t taste any of it.

Yep. You read that right. This whole post is about the shower curtain in the upstairs bathroom of my (parents) house.

This is the shower curtain.

So my Mother has a distinct sense of decor in our house and most of it is ‘americana/colonial/primitive’ and this type of patterned fabric is called toile. The fabric kind of ‘tells a story’ of sorts. It has pictures of different scenes on it.

People apparently swinging.

I can not tell you how many times I’ve looked/stared at this shower curtain. Seeing all the cute little scenes… Naming the people… etc..

I named the young lad Bill.

I just noticed something last night. Something very disturbing. There is an animal on this shower curtain that looks demonic.

Sheep

No it’s not the slightly deformed looking sheep.

Dog

No it is not the dog with the slightly bulging eyes.

Donkey

No it is not even this depressed looking donkey.

It is this creature.

DEMON GOAT

This is goat? Whaaaat?!?!? What happened to it? Why is it’s eye practically in it’s ear? Why does it’s mouth look like a sharp pointy beak? Why is it so lumpy? Why does it look like it has an eye in between it’s horns. Just WHY?!?!!???

GOAT WILL STEAL YOUR SOUL

What pits of hell did this creature come from? Why have I never noticed this before? I shower every day! I should have seen this. And now that I’ve seen it, I can’t un-see it. Now as soon as I walk into the bathroom… I can feel it watching me. Following my every move. Looking at me with it’s 1 1/2 eyes.

I say that a lot. I’m okay, really. Though honestly, when you have to put the ‘really’ on it, people usually know you are lying through your teeth.

So lately I’ve been ‘going through some things’ like any normal person. And since I still live with my parents and all of my close friends live in different states… I’ve been… Lonely. And I hate to admit that I need other people because I am fiercely independent. But. I might need a hug.

Recently some people have noticed that I am not my ‘normal cheerful self’ (yeah right, like I’ve ever been normal) and have started to ask me if I’m okay. Let me just get this out there: IF YOU ARE NOT MY SISTER OF ONE OF ME 5 BEST FRIENDS – I am not going to tell you about my problems. So leave me alone. Stop asking. I’m fine. Now go away.

Lately it’s been coworkers, my mother’s friends, elderly people, people who are my friends but I don’t really share a lot with them, etc… And they keep asking me. Expecting me to open up all my ‘feels’ and emotinally vomit all over them. Not gonna happen. You see, I have chosen these 5 people. They are the trusted ones (I have trust issues… that it a story for another day, let me tell you, whoa!). And even within this 5 there are different levels of trust. I do have a bestest friend in the whole wide world. And then I have 3 best friends. And then a have my great friend. These are the 5. They know my secrets. They know I’ll kill them if they share them. So random coworker, when you ask if I’m okay. And I say yes. Don’t ask me again. Just take it at face value. You can’t solve my problems (there are a lot of them anyways).

So as I currently wallow in my self pity, know that it is okay that I do so. I promise. Because sooner or later I will stop internalizing all of my ‘feels’ and I’ll either explode or go into therapy. And yes, I know some random friend will come up to me after this post and ask if I’m okay. And yes, I’m going to say I’m okay. And yes, I will be lying. But know it’s not because I don’t care about you as a friend. It’s just that I don’t want to talk to you about it. At all. So just…

“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.” – Miriam Adeney